


Gotcha

by talefeathers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:29:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talefeathers/pseuds/talefeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well, this was it.  Fifteen years.  Did he have any last wishes or regrets?  <i>I'm sorry, Dean.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Gotcha

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dopamineandnorepinephrine.tumblr.com](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=dopamineandnorepinephrine.tumblr.com), [missleemoore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missleemoore/gifts).



> A friend of mine wanted some H/C involving Dean calling Sam "pet names," and so after an hour this is what I had accomplished in that regard. I'm not 100% satisfied with it (in small part because I actually didn't manage to work in that many true "pet names"), but there are parts of it that I do like, so I figured what the hell. Enjoy!

"Sam, you take the west wing," John ordered, ignoring Dean's comment about Sam being the first female president. "Dean, you take the east. I'll be in the basement."

Sam shuffled off, shouldering his salt gun, paying more attention to the house itself than anything that might be hiding inside it. As much as he hated this, the hunting, the traveling, the late nights and the weird looks, at least ghosts typically picked pretty interesting places to stay. Huge, old mansions full of history and art. He passed rooms full of cushy furniture and flat-screen TVs, poked open doors to rickety stairwells once used by servants. He marveled at these houses, familiar to him by now and yet still impossibly foreign. What must it be like to live like this? In one place, without having to hunt or steal or drive for your life? He didn't know if he'd like it or not. What he'd like would be the chance to try.

He pushed open another door and was met with more fancy frippery. He sighed, wondering if Dean or Dad had found their quarry yet. He'd never admit it, but he'd sort of zoned out when Dad had been giving the rundown. What were they looking for again? Vengeful spirit? It didn't matter. He'd sent Dean to the east wing, so the east wing must be where the thing was. Dean showed more promise. Dean would get more training.

Just as he was thinking this, a chill skittered up his spine. He stopped in his tracks and watched his breath turn to mist before his eyes. _Oh._

He whirled around, gun raised, but was too slow. An extension cord snapped tightly around his ankles and pulled, which resulted in his face becoming intimate with the fluffy, fragrant carpet. And then his body being dragged across it.

 _"Dean!"_ he yelped, his stomach sinking when he remembered that his brother probably couldn't hear him from where he was. He twisted and kicked, tried to free his legs, tried to find something he could shoot at. _Must be a poltergeist or something,_ he was able to think dryly before managing to roll away from a huge mahogany dresser that attempted to squash him. Due to the cords that were winding tighter and tighter around his legs, he didn't quite get away. His stomach clenched at the pop of his arm breaking. _"DEAN!"_

Against what had been drilled into him since he could hold a gun, he started to panic. For the first time in his life he was really losing sight of a way out. Before, he'd always had it under control, always found a way to come out on top, and if he hadn't, Dean had been right there. But now he was trapped, really trapped, his shooting arm broken and pinned beneath a dresser, various household wiring worming its way up his torso toward his neck. And Dean couldn't hear him.

He should've paid more attention, he should've listened to Dad, because Dean was strong and Dean was brave but Dean had known Mom and Dean wasn't okay, and if Sam had only listened to Dad then Dean wouldn't have to lose anyone else. Dean wouldn't have to break any more.

He tried to scream again but a lamp cord stopped him doing so. It wasn't long before blossoms of black started to obscure his vision. Well, this was it. Fifteen years. Did he have any last wishes or regrets? _I'm sorry, Dean._

_"SAMMY!”_

Sam's eyes slipped closed, not with resignation but with relief. Soon there was no more pressure on his throat, and then no pressure on his snapped arm. He was pulled up into a tight, familiar hug.

"I've gotcha," Dean was saying. His voice was a tint more gravelly than usual. Sam lifted his good arm to squeeze him back. "I've gotcha, kiddo, you're okay."

"What did I tell you?" John was yelling, standing over the two of them. Looming. "What was the _first thing I said_ before we entered this building, Sam?"

"C'mon, Dad," Dean tried, but John talked over him.

"I said _pay attention to your surroundings."_

"Dad." Sam knew how much Dean hated standing up to the old man. He pressed his face into Dean's shoulder to show that it was appreciated. "Give him a second, he coulda died in here."

There was a moment of tension, of nothing but the three of them breathing heavily, before Dad stomped out of the room. One of Dean's hands squeezed the back of Sam's shaggy head.

"He was just worried," he said. "When you didn't answer after he burned the hex bag... He thought we lost you."

Sam said nothing. He was in too much pain to go into this now. Dean cleared his throat.

"But anyway, we didn't. Right, Sammy? I gotcha, just like I always do. Just like I always will." Sam heard the click in his brother's throat when he swallowed. "You're a pain in the ass but you're my little brother, and I've gotcha."


End file.
